


Gothica with Goldfish

by LooselybasedonUk



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: goldfish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-16
Updated: 2014-05-16
Packaged: 2018-01-25 07:34:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1639172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LooselybasedonUk/pseuds/LooselybasedonUk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft Holmes gets a goldfish .</p><p>Mycroft Holmes , the delivery person , too much Northanger Abbey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gothica with Goldfish

There is a corridor on the top floor of an unremarkable building in Central London. It takes a great deal of assurance and confidence to be unremarkable in Central London and this building is the least remarkable you will ever see. The only way up to the top floor is past three sets of heavy armed security guards, a sniffer dog and a full body x-ray. The dog seems interested in the parcel you are carrying but its handler pulls it away   
'No Klove' he says sternly.' That's for himself.'   
The dog looks abashed and slumps back on its rump. The guard waves you through with a flick of his gun. 

You grip the parcel a little tighter and then worry that your fingers will leave sweaty mark on the plain brown paper. You try to work out the exact pressure with which to hold the parcel as you stand in the lift speeding upwards. Too little and you'll drop it , too much and the paper might tear and then they will think that you tried to open it and they will drag you off to some dark and airless room and ask you questions for hours . You might confess to anything under that pressure. And then the man upstairs might come down and talk to you and if that happens, you disappear. They say that's what happened to the other brother and Christ, now you are nervous -you can't do this. You reach a trembling finger to stop the lift to get out, to pass this dreadful burden to someone else, anyone else, but at that moment the lift stops, the door pings open and you are here. You are on the top floor and a dreadful curiosity sweeps over you. So few have made it this far, you are one of the few now and you have to know.

The corridor is wood panelled and imposing; it is hung with old heavy portraits of stern faced men with hooded eyes and long pale hands. They all wear the same look on their faces, hidden and secretive. They say that the eyes of a good portrait follow you, but as you walk past these frames, it’s their hands that twitch like pinned butterflies and your neck seems to feel their cool and ghostly touch. The corridor is long and straight, there is only one possible destination as you walk it - the wooden door at the end with a light above it. If the light is on you may knock and wait for the surprisingly soft voice to call you in. It is and you do.

There is no waiting area behind the door; you are immediately in the presence. He sits behind a desk in front of two wide windows, they are open, and their heavy brocade curtains bound back and for a moment there is too much light in the room .You blink, clear your eyes of the corridor's darkness until you can see him clearly. The ice man, the keeper of the secrets, the spider in the web - Mycroft Holmes all bright blue eye and arched eyebrow waits for you to speak.

You hold out the package the plain brown paper with the hessian string bow around it. This important parcel, entrusted to you to deliver directly to the hands of the man himself.   
'Your delivery, sir' you say and your voice cracks just a little   
'Excellent 'says Mycroft Holmes. He stands up, long limbs unfurling like origami. You always thought he'd be taller and the moment that you think that, you know that somehow he knows that you thought that, and his lips thin a little. He reaches out his long pale hand; mutely you thrust the parcel at him. The long fingers pull at the loose end of the string and it uncoils smoothly. The paper springs open and despite yourself you hold your breath, you are going to see it - the precious thing, the secret thing, the thing that Mycroft Holmes wants. Briefly your mind flicks to Monty Python's Holy Grail , Indiana Jones Arc of the Covenant, the suitcase of light from Pulp Fiction- what will this be? Should you shield your eyes? Or look away? But the moment goes too fast and before you have braced yourself, it is revealed.  
...  
It's a small tub of fish food   
…  
You look again. Fish flakes, you read on the sides, freshwater fish only. There is some smaller text which tells you that this food is specifically designed to enhance the bright colours of your fish. And suddenly you become aware of the movement in the corner of the room and although you tell yourself not to look, your head moves around of its own accord and you see the glass tank against the dark wood walls. A sturdy cabinet and a thickly glassed, green tinted, fish tank. The water is clear and a small discrete filter hums from its hiding place within the cabinet. There is a single fish in it.

It is not a fancy fish. It is nothing exotic. It looks like the kind of fish that you used to be able to win at fairs. It looks like a child's first pet, the one that inevitable gets forget and dies too soon- it is small, orange and inoffensive . It seems to be busy swimming in laps, along the front to the tank, round a patch of feathery green plant , through a stream of bubbles filtering up through a pile of rounded river stones and then round again. The tank is big and resolutely unadorned by stickers of Sponge Bob Square Pants or miniature deep sea divers. The fish, if one can apply human emotions to such a creature, looks absurdly happy.

'Thank you' says Mycroft Holmes and your attention is drawn back to the man in front of you. He nods and you are dismissed. He moves out from behind the desk and heads toward the tank and you walk toward the door. You take a moment to look back as you exit and catch a last glimpse of the man, the British government. He is leaning slightly over the tank, tub of food open in this hand and the fish is floating at the top, looking up at him. As you close the door behind you, you hear him say in a soft crooning tone

'Did you think Daddy had forgotten your din dins? Did you? Never! There's a good girl. Eat it all up now, Gloria.'

When they ask you later what you saw, what's up there, you will look solemn, fold your hands on top of each other and shake your head. You loved to tell them, you imply, but well, some things are just too secret to be spoken of lightly. You eyes will take on a far away look and the people leaning on your desk will straighten up , tug at their suit jackets, straighten their hair, look at you again , something like awe in their eyes, respect . And in a small way, you too become part of the legend.


End file.
